


A Little Less Sixteen Candles, A Little More "Touch Me"

by SupernaturalFlavoredLollipop



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural Novels - Various
Genre: BAMF Sam Winchester, Disabled Character, F/M, Female Protagonist, Fluff, Protective Sam Winchester, Psychic, Romance, Sam Winchester in Love, Shifter, Smut, Violence, bamf disabled character, character in wheelchair, female character is badass, hunting a shifter, reads sam winchester's mind, tricked out wheelchair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 01:59:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3792361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupernaturalFlavoredLollipop/pseuds/SupernaturalFlavoredLollipop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Request!) Sam's been hanging around your house a lot lately, and you are pretty sure he has a thing for you. You use your psychic powers to help him on a shifter case, and things go terribly wrong, and then terribly right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Less Sixteen Candles, A Little More "Touch Me"

You'd heard something outside. It was late. Sighing, you lay still in bed, letting your eyes adjust to the darkness, just listening. Yup, you definitely heard something. A car was approaching, up the long gravel road that led to your house on the outskirts of Topeka.

 

“Shit.” You'd been asleep, quite peacefully. _Not anymore_. You sat yourself up in bed, moved your legs over the side, and, lifting yourself, slid over into your chair. You grabbed your shotgun (the real one, not the rock-salt one; whatever was driving the car probably wouldn't be too fazed by rock salt) and rolled yourself down the hall towards the front door. Whoever was coming wasn't being real sneaky about it, so they either were there to cause a ruckus, or were a demon and didn't care if you knew they were approaching. You were hoping for the former, but you had Demon Traps all over the damned place, so you weren't too worried about the latter, either. Let's just say, if shit went down, you were prepared.

 

You left all the lights off, and watched as the ugliest blue mustang you'd ever seen hauled ass onto your lawn, pulled to a stop, and the headlights clicked off. It wasn't that you disliked mustangs- it was just that this one was seriously beat to hell, and most of it was actually the color of primer, not blue anymore. You readied your shotgun as the car door opened and a tall male form got out. He pulled a bag from the seat and shut the door with a loud “thud!” Then he made his way towards your house.

 

“Stay where you are. Hands where I can see them!” You called out, cocking the gun, making sure your visitor could hear it.

 

“Shit! Sorry Y/N!” A familiar voice called back, though both of his arms shot into the air. You peered into the night, and realized you recognized the silhouette.

 

“Sam.” You lowered your gun. “Jesus, Sam! I could have shot you! What are you doing driving up here like that in the middle of the night? You couldn't call first?”

 

“I lost my phone... I was just on a really, _really_ bad hunt.” His long legs brought him to the door quickly. He bent down, enveloping you in a warm embrace that went on just a little longer than necessary. You breathed him in. He smelled of Old Spice and faintly of sweat, and some lighter fluid mixed in, with maybe some fabric softener.

 

“You know I shoot first, ask questions... never.” You reminded him with a wink. You turned and wheeled in, leading him into the house. “You scared the shit out of me. Why were you driving so fast?”

 

“Adrenaline, I guess?” Sam shrugged. “I was hunting a shifter... it got away from me.”

 

You immediately turned and glared at him. “Touch the chair, Sam.”

 

“What?”

 

“You know the drill. I need to know you aren't a shifter. Touch the chair.” He approached you, running his hand over the metal of your chair. You'd gotten inventive a few years before, coating it in a mixture of silver, iron, and epoxy. Kept the shifters away from you, and ghosts too. Or, on the off chance one did get you, they couldn't fool anyone by using your equipment. You'd also made a ton of modifications to your normal looking wheelchair. Iron blades, knives, and even a set of blow darts were all camouflaged in there. You figured if you had to be in it, it might as well serve you well.

 

Satisfied that Sam wasn't a shifter, you asked the next important question. “Did this shifter follow you?”

 

He shook his head. “I don't think so. It had already shed it's skin when I got there. Well, to the second location. After it got done beating the _hell_ out of Dean and me at the first location, we split up. He checked out it's other possible hiding spot. Needless to say, it wasn't there, and he ended up in a bar in Indiana.”

 

“And you ended up here.” You stated bluntly.

 

“Don't I always?” Sam grinned.

 

“Seems like it, lately.” It did seem like it. Topeka wasn't that far from Lawrence, and you had met the brothers a few months back when they'd needed your assistance. You made your money as a psychic. You couldn't tell the future just by looking at people- you had to be physically holding something important to them. When you weren't playing “Long Island Medium” to pay the bills, you were helping the police find missing persons, and had spent the last few years helping plenty of other hunters as well. Because of that, a friend of theirs, a Sheriff from Sioux Falls, had heard of you and sent them your way. They'd brought you a doll from a missing child, who'd been unfortunate enough to be swallowed up by her Peter Pan storybook. When you'd told the brothers this, you hadn't been met with the best response. However, they had eventually figured out you weren't bullshitting them, and you'd all figured out how to get her back and make the storybooks in that town stop stealing children. Since then, they'd come back a few times for help, and lately, Sam had been making _a lot_ of weekend trips out to see you. He said your place helped clear his head, that he needed a break from Dean, and a variety of other excuses. You didn't really care why he was there- you enjoyed his quiet company. You had a small guest room, and though it had originally been piled high with boxes, you'd recently cleaned it to make room so that Sam didn't have to sleep on your sofa. You just couldn't take the sight of him anymore, all arms and legs hanging off the ends of the couch. It was torture just imagining all 6'4” of him cramming himself onto the sofa.

 

“You hungry?” You asked him.

 

“I could use a beer.” He replied. “I'm a little rattled, to be honest. I _really_ don't like shifters.”

 

You grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and handed it to him. “You get anything off of the, er, remains, that I could look at? Maybe tell you where it's headed?”

 

Sam pulled a belt buckle out of his pocket. “It may have been the last victim's, I don't know if it'll work.”

 

You nodded, taking it from him. You concentrated. Images flashed before you. A man pushing a child on a swing set. A yellow Labrador retriever. A redbrick house. You looked at Sam. “Was the victim a man in his thirties with a kid and a dog?” Sam nodded. “Yeah... I'm picking up his life. Not the shifter.. I'm sorry.” You set the belt buckle down on the cabinet. “That's awful.”

 

Sam ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, it is. He was dead before we got there. For a while, it looked like.” He had a faraway look in his eyes. You left Sam where he was and went to lock up the front door. “Hey, Y/N, could you grab my laptop when you come back in?” He called down the hall to you.

 

“Sure.” You locked up, then reached into his bag for his computer. You pulled it out, and immediately regretted touching it. Images once again began flashing into your mind, but this time, they were about Sam. Sam studying something in Latin. Sam in what you could only imagine was the bunker, since you'd never been there. Sam and Dean driving in the Impala. Then... Sam breathing heavy, arms wrapped around a woman. He was rough, his hands on her body, holding her to him and pressing his lips to hers, her face cupped in his hand. You wondered who the woman was. You realized, with a sudden pang of jealousy, that you didn't _want_ to know if Sam had a lover. You were about to drop the computer onto your lap and break contact when the image sharpened in your mind. The woman's hand snaked up Sam's back and into his hair, pulling it slightly. Sam growled and smiled down at her. You recognized the ring she wore on the middle finger of her right hand, tangled in his hair. It looked like a snake. At this point you _did_ drop the laptop. You looked down at your own hand. The snake ring was looking back up at you. _The woman was you_. But was this an imprint of one of Sam's daydreams, or was this a premonition?

* * *

 

You made your way back into the kitchen and awkwardly handed Sam back his laptop. You made sure to keep the visions at bay as your fingers graced its cover. He gave you an odd look. “Y/N, are you all right?”

 

You nodded. “Never better.” You gave him a smile that even you knew was half-assed and unconvincing. “Absolutely great.”

 

He furrowed his eyebrows at you and reached over to feel your forehead. You batted his hand away. “I don't have a fever, Sam!” You rolled your eyes.

 

“You're just being... really weird.” He looked at his computer. “Wait... _Did you just get a read from my laptop?_ ”

 

“No.” You lied. He continued looking at you. His eyebrows shot up a little. “Maybe?” He kept staring. “ _Damn it._ Yes, on accident. But I didn't mean to. I didn't realize I'd get an imprint off of a damned laptop.”

 

“Oh... what did you see?” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

 

“Not much. You apparently don't watch a lot of porn on that thing.” You tried to make a lighthearted joke. He unfortunately didn't take the bait. “Just a lot of random shit at the bunker. And a lot of driving in your brother's car. That's about it.” You left out the hardcore make out session with yours truly. You had to ponder that for a while and decide what to do with it, but it made you all hot and bothered just thinking about it. And it made sense; he _was_ spending an awful lot of time at your place.

* * *

About an hour later, you finally returned to bed. Sam retreated to the guest room down the hall. You lay awake for a long time that night, just thinking. Mostly about Sam.

 

You'd known Sam was different from the beginning. The world was a different and sometimes harsh place when you were a psychic relegated to a wheelchair. For the most part, people were good, or tried to be, even though a lot of them had no clue how to act. However, a lot of people acted like the chair was the star of the show, and you were just a supporting actor. But not Sam, never Sam. Sam barely acknowledged the fact that your chair or your difficulties existed. It made no difference to him. You were a person to him, who happened to have a souped up, Mad-Max Thunderdome style chair and a set of psychic abilities that freaked out most people. But all he ever treated you like was plain and simple Y/N. Maybe that was why you didn't actually mind that he showed up at your house all the time, took up space, watched Three Stooges Movies on your TV, used all of your fabric softener... You thought back to your hug. He'd smelled like _your_ fabric softener. You smiled.

* * *

The next morning, Sam was already up and at his laptop when you made your way to the kitchen. Coffee was made, too. He wasn't a bad house guest, not at all. When he saw you enter the room, he got up to pour you a cup. You gratefully accepted the hot beverage, and pulled up beside him at the table.

 

“Any luck on your shifter?” You asked, looking over his shoulder. He was looking up crime reports from nearby towns. This shifter apparently liked to murder people, as well as steal their identities.

 

“Not on here, but you remember that case a few months ago with the murdered woman? The one we couldn't find a connection to? And all of her jewelry was pawned?” Sam turned to you, sipping his coffee. You nodded. “I think she may have been one of his early victims. Do you still have her stuff we brought you to read?”

 

You thought a minute. “I... I think so. If I do, they'd be in the basement.”

 

“You have a basement?”

 

You pointed to a door at the far end of the kitchen. “What did you think that was?”

 

“Another pantry?” Sam shrugged. “Um, how do you get down to the basement, if you don't mind my asking?”

 

“I don't.” You said matter-of-factly. “I use it for storage. Anything I don't think I'll need but don't want to toss, I put in a box, and just _slide it on down the stairs._ ” You shrugged. “It might take you a while to find that lady's stuff. There's probably a pretty substantial pile of boxes down there.”

 

Sam stood. “I'll find it. There was a ring, and I'm hoping the shifter wore that lady's jewelry long enough to imprint something. I remember you saying the images you got were really confusing. I'm hoping that's because they were from two people, and we just didn't know what we were looking for.” He made his way to the basement door, opened it, and flicked on the light. You saw his eyes go wide, and you smiled to yourself, amused. “Wow, Y/N. It's like an avalanche down there. You really know ow to decorate.”

 

You shot him your most dazzling smile. “Godspeed, my handsome rock climber.” You opened the morning paper, which he'd gone and gotten, and leaned back. Man, was he a convenient man to have around the house.

* * *

 

“I found it!” Sam shouted about an hour later. You'd finished the paper, gone to take a shower, and were just now getting back to the kitchen. You heard him storm up the steps, and come around the corner of the door, a plastic bag of jewelry in his hands. “You think you can read it? Does this stuff like, wear off?”

 

You shook your head. “Not usually, no.” You pulled the items out of the bag, focusing on a ring. “This would have had the most contact with the person. Hopefully it'll...whoa.” You stopped midsentence. Images were flying around inside of your head, and now that you kind of knew what you were looking for, they were _distinctly_ from two different people. One was a typical young woman, an accountant. She wore the ring every day, it had been given to her by her grandmother when she'd been dying. The second person was harder to pinpoint, but you saw a high rise apartment building, somewhere cloudy and rainy. It was a squalid dump of an apartment, and if you focused hard enough, you could barely make out the sign. “They live somewhere... or go somewhere... a building called “The Pines”... it's white with grey doors. Six stories tall. Apartments I think.” You let yourself be drawn in further. “Apartment twenty four. It's a studio. I think it sleeps there. It's... gross.” You put the ring down. A huge wave of depression and solitude had washed over you. You shivered.

 

Sam reached out and put a hand on your shoulder. “Are you okay?” He looked concerned.

 

You nodded. “Yeah, Sam. I'm okay. I just... I get feelings from objects, too. And that shifter isn't the most mentally stable person. It... it hurts. A lot.” You shook your head, as if trying to shake it clear of the darkness that had descended. Sam still had his hand on your arm. He slid it down to your hand, grasping it lightly.

 

“You sure you're all right?”

 

“Sam, I'm _fine_!” You rolled your eyes and pulled your hand away. He dejectedly took to his computer. _Why did I do that?_ You asked yourself. _He was holding my damned hand..._ _And I pulled away. What the hell, Y/N? “_ I think I'm going to take a nap. That kind of... drained me.” You began to leave the room. “Sam?” You turned. He looked up from his computer. “Wake me up if you need anything, okay?” You shot him a smile. 

 

“Will do.” He smiled back.

 

You were asleep maybe two hours, but when you awoke, the house was empty and the ugly mustang was gone. Your heart sank. You found a note taped to the refrigerator.

 

_Y/N,_

_Got a lead on that apartment building. Meeting Dean there to track down the shifter. You looked so peaceful, I didn't want to wake you. I'll phone when I'm done, maybe head back if you aren't sick of me yet. I'll grab a pizza and some beer on the way._

_-Sam_

 

You sighed. You didn't have any readings scheduled for the next few days, so all you had to do was wait, and worry, about the Winchesters chasing a murderous shifter. _Great._

* * *

 

Sam once again showed up at your place in the middle of the night, unannounced, in the ugly Mustang. _What the hell is his problem? Did he forget how to use a phone?_ You dragged yourself off of the couch where you'd dozed off, and made your way to the door, flipping on the porch light. Sam made his way up the steps, smiling at you.

 

“Thanks for the call, Sam.” You said dryly.

 

“Oh, right. Yeah. I, uh, forgot. Sorry.” He leaned down to hug you. It was a really weird, really brief hug. You drew back. Something wasn't right.

 

“How'd the hunt go? You ace the shifter?” You asked. Sam stepped past you into the house. You noticed that he didn't have his overnight bag with him.

 

“Yeah, yeah, we got him.” He sat down on the sofa. “We got him.” He nodded.

 

“Where's Dean?”

 

“He headed home.” Sam looked at you, but there was something not quite right about him. His eyes seemed vacant when he looked at you. You'd never realized it before, but when Sam looked at you, his eyes were never vacant. He usually, you suddenly realized, looked at you like you were _home_.

 

“Sam, can you help me with something?” You asked. You were getting a really bad feeling about this situation.

 

“Sure. What's up?” He stood and came closer. You tried not to cringe. You were pretty sure this was _not_ Sam.

 

“The wheel on my chair... it keeps sticking. Think you can take a look at it?” If this was Sam, he'd have no problem touching your chair, silver paint and all. If it wasn't Sam... you'd better be ready to fight, because he was about to be burned _and_ pissed.

 

“Of course.” You indicated the right front wheel, and he knelt to look at it. As soon as he ducked down, you unlatched the metal bar you had attached to the back of the chair. He wrapped his hand around the leg of the chair to steady himself while looking at the wheel, and instantly his flesh began to burn. He let out a bloodcurdling howl, and you pulled the metal bar over your head and brought it slamming down onto his back. You kept hitting him with it. He went into a blind rage, standing and knocking your chair over, spilling you onto the ground. You grabbed a knife from one of the many sheaths hidden in your chair, and shimmied your way away from him.

 

“You bitch! What the hell's that thing made out of?” Shifter-Sam screamed at you.

 

“It's plated it silver, dickhead! And if you were really Sam, you'd know that!” You had the metal club raised to hit him again if he came any closer. “Why the fuck are you here, and where are Sam and Dean?”

 

He smiled, rubbing his hand absentmindedly. “They're... indisposed. Dean's chasing down a fake lead, again. That man is far too easy to trick. And Sam, well, he's a bit tied up at the moment. Locked in a basement, actually. I had to come out here and get rid of the psychic that keeps leading hunters straight to me. You're the last link, honey.” He came at you menacingly. You smacked him with the metal rod, but your leverage from the floor wasn't all that good. He tore it from your hands, picked you up off of the ground, and threw you against your bookshelf. _Fuck,_ shifters were strong. You managed to get a good stab in before he threw you, but unfortunately your knife wasn't silver. And your pistol with the silver bullets was down the hall in your room. You were screwed.

 

Shifter-Sam picked up the metal rod, swinging it around maniacally.

 

“You're going to _beat me to death with a metal rod_?” You asked, gulping.

 

“You hit me with it. It only seems fair.”

 

“You technically invaded my home. Beating me to death with it seems a little barbaric, don't you think?”

 

He laughed. “Barbaric. Yeah, probably. Not as barbaric as what I'm gonna do to Sam. Once he gets out, and he will get out, where do you think he'll go? Here. Of course. And who will he find. _You._ Only it'll be _me_. The last thing he sees on this earth will be _you killing him_.” He grinned. “I couldn't get close enough to kill him earlier. This plan will work great.”

 

“Actually, your plan is shit.” You heard a voice to your left, and looking over, saw Sam standing in the doorway, a revolver in his hand. He fired once, hitting the shifter in the heart, and he went down without a sound.

 

“Your timing is impeccable.” You let out a deep breath. Sam raced over to you, picking you up from the floor. He set you on the sofa.

 

“Are you hurt? Are you all right? Your legs? Do we need to check them? Is everything-” He was getting ahead of himself with worry.

 

“Sam, Sam, I'm fine. I'm good.” You stopped him. He was knelt down in front of you, hands checking all over your body for injuries, pulling up your eyelids to check your pupils for concussion. You batted his hands away, then grabbed both of them. “I'm fine.”

 

“Jesus. I was so...” He stopped and looked at you, then suddenly pulled you into his arms, his lips crashing against yours, his hands roughly holding you to him, your body perched on the edge of the couch. You wound your arms around his neck to steady yourself, deepening the kiss, winding your hand up into his hair, pulling it roughly. An image flashed into your head. The vision from earlier when you'd touched his laptop. It _had_ been a premonition.

 

He pulled his lips away from you just barely, breathing heavily into your neck. “I'm so, so sorry. He locked me in a basement and when I got out I figured he'd come after you. All your texts are still in my phone- he'd know you were our psychic.”

 

“It's not your fault Sam.” You whispered to him. “But... if you're gonna kiss me...”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“We need to move. There's a dead shifter in here and it's creeping me out.”

 

Sam threw back his head and let out a loud laugh. “I forgot about him.” He looked over at the shifter. “I could take him out and burn him right now.”

 

You turned his face back towards you. “Fuck it. Burn him tomorrow. Let's relocate.”

 

He looked deep in your eyes. “You're hardcore. Where do you want to go?”

 

You wiggled your eyebrows. “My room.”

 

Sam stood up, wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you up. He dropped one arm under your knees, and carried you off, across the house, to your room. He set you on the bed, climbing onto it beside you. “I'm not rushing things, am I, Sam?” You asked him.

 

He shook his head. “Hell no. You think I come spend every weekend with you because of your coffee and dryer sheets?” He propped himself up on one elbow. “I'll give you a hint. You buy really shitty coffee.”

 

“Oh, shut the hell up and get over here.” You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him in to you. Soon he'd climbed on top of you, and you were unbuttoning his shirt, it was on the floor, and he was pulling yours off. Pants came off, and you were both in your underwear. “You have a condom?” You asked him.

 

He nodded, practically sprinting out of the room and back in with it.

 

“Someone's prepared.” You grinned.

 

“ _Someone was hopeful_.” He smiled, kissing you again, running his hand up your side, up your neck, and into your hair, pulling it softly. His lips explored your lips, down your neck, all over. You undressed each other the rest of the way, and the rest, as they say, is history.

* * *

 

The next morning, you woke up, acutely aware that your usually smooth sheets were wrinkled and tangled up around you, and that your room smelled like a mixture of Old Spice, fabric softener, aftershave, and lighter fluid. You groggily turned over, and found Sam's sleeping form beside you. You reached over, throwing an arm across his chest and resting your head against his shoulder. He opened one eye, looked around, and smiled. “Morning, beautiful.”

 

You drifted back off to sleep. Guess you were going to be getting used to having a house guest.

 


End file.
